this can be your phys ed
by ratherembarrassing
Summary: 856 : i'm just sitting here watching hocus pocus, eating takeout, and taking self esteem quizzes online while everyone is out partying. you tell me how my night is.


Halloween is Santana's favorite holiday, even as an adult. There's much less opportunity to dress as a sexy nurse, or a sexy cat, or a sexy Katie Couric once you're no longer in college, and Halloween is the one night of the year being weird is still encouraged.

Which is why she is completely pissed to be stuck at home with a sprained ankle, while everyone else is at some party in rooftop hothouse on the Lower East Side. The theme was Stuff New Yorkers Hate (New Yorkers are fucking weird and she will never think otherwise) and she'd been to the solarium just for the occasion.

She's very much wearing a groove into the couch, but the doctor had said a week of ankle elevation, and so here she is, foot propped up on a bunch of pillows, surrounded by everything they had thought she would need. What she really needed was some alcohol and to have not been such a fucking martyr and asked her friends to hang out with her instead of sending them off with a, 'fuck off, losers, I've got a tivo full of shit to get through.'

Hours later she's had enough of housewives, real or otherwise, and is licking Nutella off her finger while contemplating how someone as butt-ugly as Sarah Jessica Parker can have such a successful career as she prances around on the tv with what is probably not even a prosthetic nose.

Worst. Halloween. Ever.

As if to compound her misery, a message alert on her phone startles her, making her jump and knock her ankle. She's cursing up a storm as she reaches for it, and Quinn is such a fucking bitch, how the fuck does she think her night is going? She sends back exactly that.

Bitch doesn't even reply.

Twenty-five minutes later, halfway to a sugar coma, and depressed because even stupid online quizzes are failing to cheer her up (seriously, she has to go back and delete all this shit off her Facebook wall and everything - there is nothing funny about Virginia Woolf being your literary spirit animal) there's a knock at the door and son of a bitch, could people stop making sudden loud noises around her and causing her pain? Also, why the fuck is someone knocking at her door, how the fuck did they even get into the building?

Even though the television is blaring, she holds very still and hopes whatever neighbor it is goes the fuck away.

Then the lock is turning and she's reaching for one of her crutches because, okay it doesn't make any sense, but it's late and she's on pain medication and what the hell is Quinn doing breaking into her apartment anyway?

"Uh, can I help you, Olivia Benson?"

Quinn shoots her a smile as she eases in and closes the door behind her, flipping the locks and pulling her coat and scarf off.

"I thought you could use the company."

"Did you now?" Somewhere in there she's probably grateful, but it's coming out all bitch because, seriously, these assholes, Quinn included, ditched her in the first place. Or something like that. She doesn't remember anymore, all she knows is tonight blows, and now Quinn is here dressed as-

"What the fuck are you supposed to be?"

"Sarah Jessica Parker." The blonde wig is horrible, but totally on point, and the fake nose is just extra hilarious.

"Seriously? You look like Rachel that time she went blonde for that stupid play."

She's managed to haul herself up into a sitting position, and Quinn perches on the couch by her hip.

"Don't be mean," Quinn replies, but she's laughing anyway. She reaches out and wipes her thumb over Santana's bottom lip, then pops her thumb in her own mouth and lets out this obscene moan.

"Not sure which one of us is sadder, right now," Santana says, but she can't take her eyes off Quinn's mouth, and her tongue chasing her thumb even as she pulls it away.

"Don't really care," Quinn says quietly, right before she presses her lips to Santana's and goes to town. She's pretty sure Quinn's just looking for more Nutella, but whatever. There are worse reasons to have your girlfriend kiss you like it's her really awesome job.

"I'm still mad at you for abandoning me and shit," she says as she pulls back.

"Aww, poor baby," Quinn is totally making fun of her, but whatever. "Let me make it up to you."

It's awkward as all hell with her ankle, but Quinn hikes up her dress and settles at her side, and thank god this couch is ridiculously wide, because this is going to get stupid but fuck getting up and going into her bedroom when Quinn has her hand underneath the ratty old Yale tee she's wearing, thumbing at her already painfully tight nipple. Bras are for people who haven't spent three days on the couch.

Quinn's had a bit to drink, not much but enough, and she's rocking into her hip almost immediately, even as she keeps up her stroking over Santana's breasts and kissing around her jawline and down to her neck. Santana reaches for her hip, trying to pull Quinn on top of her because fuck, she needs something to grind against as much as Quinn does. But Quinn just pushes her hand away, pressing it down into the couch and shakes her head. "Uh uh, you first."

Her shirt's up around her armpits, and that seems good enough for now, but they fight with her shorts until they can free Santana from them and then Quinn just hikes Santana's bad leg over her shoulder and settles directly between her thighs. Quinn's back is as good as any pillow, so as if she gives a fuck when Quinn is running her tongue over Santana's already drenched slit, parting her with two fingers and then taking her clit between her lips and sucking.

They've been together for a while now, and Quinn knows all her buttons and exactly how to push them, but even still she comes really quickly, arching up into Quinn's mouth with her fists wrapped around that stupid wig, and using her thigh for leverage instead of the foot still resting on Quinn's lower back. She thinks, 'forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It's been four days since my last orgasm, and I couldn't control myself,' and then chuckles because Quinn would slap her for the thought. As if Santana didn't get dragged to church just as much as Quinn did growing up. The only church she prays at now is the Church of Orgasms, and she likes to think her soul is better for it.

Quinn slaps at her thigh, as if she can read her mind, and Santana just laughs all the more and says, "get up here and sit on my face," and Quinn slaps her again but does it anyway. It's been four days since Quinn's had an orgasm, too.


End file.
